The One Who Mattered Most
by Gimlifan8
Summary: Moriarty does the only thing on earth that could've destroyed Sherlock's plan. AU Reichenbach Fall. Oneshot. Warning: Spoilers, Character Death. Also, if you haven't seen TRF it won't make sense.


Hello everyone! So this is my first Sherlock fanfic. This idea just sort of popped into my head during some daily activity and absolutely refused to leave so here it is! The characters might be a bit OOC, despite my efforts to keep them in-character. If you see grammatical mistakes, or any other type of mistake for that matter, please let me know!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or the masterpiece TV show that is BBC Sherlock.**

**Enjoy!**

"John?"

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Everyone."

"Lestrade?"

Moriarty closed his eyes in a show of exasperation. "Eve-ry-one!" he emphasized. "No one else comes to mind? I'm….disappointed!" he lowered his voice as if sharing a secret. "She'd be, too, you know."

Sherlock stared, frozen, hoping beyond hope it wasn't who he thought. "Molly?" he whispered finally.

"Four bullets. Four gunmen. Four victims. There's no _stopping_ them now."

Sherlock felt all the energy drain out of his body. His grip on Moriarty weakened, making the man whoop loudly. "Careful there, darling!"

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock pulled Moriarty up and back on the rooftop, allowing him to set foot on steady ground. Clenching his hands at his sides, he shut his eyes and tried to steady his breathing in an effort to keep himself together. It wasn't much use, his mind was going into overdrive; he couldn't help trembling slightly as he struggled to process what this new development meant.

Molly was being targeted. Molly was being watched. And downstairs, at the very moment, Molly was preparing to stage his fall.

A laugh startled him out of his thoughts. He narrowed his eyes at Moriarty, angry at himself for giving his thoughts away.

"Oh? So you really predicted my last move, didn't you?" Moriarty smiled, the sort of smile a proud parent would give his child. "That's my boy! Daddy is SO proud, my dear."

Then he changed his tone, becoming serious again. "I'm not going to lie, Sherlock, you would've gotten away with it. Clever. Awfully clever...just..." he made a face. "Bad luck, Sherlock. You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only four friends in the world will die, unless..."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Unless I kill myself and complete your story."

Molly stared out of the window, worry causing her stomach to clench. What if something went wrong? What if she failed to-

Her phone beeped. She flipped it out, expecting to see the code Sherlock had made up. It wasn't there. Instead:

_**Take care of John, please. -SH**_

Another text alert. With shaking hands, she opened the text.

_**You've always counted. Never doubt that, Molly Hooper.**_

Her phone clattered to the phone at the same time a heavy thud came from outside.

Blood had pooled on the pavement. Molly could see John, sitting motionless in the back of an ambulance, an orange blanket draped on his shoulders. His eyes were staring into nothingness, his whole form like a statue. There was no feeling in his eyes, just...empty.

She stifled a sob, rushing inside the building and down to the morgue, where Sherlock would be waiting for her but wouldn't pace up and down, wouldn't demand to see a body he had no right to see, wouldn't try to persuade her with flattery if she hesitated.

He wasn't capable of doing any of those now. Never again.

She pulled back the sheet, and recoiled in horror.

Blood was smeared on his forehead, his curly hair matted with it, his glowing pale skin now paper white and in stark contrast to the red on his face. But she was used to these sorts of things. What she wasn't prepared for was his eyes. They were open but devoid of intensity, devoid of intelligence, devoid of _life_.

She covered her mouth, tears flowing freely down her face.

"Why, Sherlock?" she whispered. "W-why didn't you give me a chance?" she hiccupped a bit. Sherlock would probably have been very irritated at her 'show of weakness' as he called….had-used-to-call…it, but she couldn't help it.

"I know you think...th-thought...I wasn't good for anything- but I could've done this-I could've-"

"Sherlock never doubted that, Miss Hooper."

She yelped, and spun around. Standing still as statue on the doorway was a suited man with a black umbrella hooked on an elbow. She was sure she had seen him before, with Sherlock. But when…? Oh, last Christmas. They had come to identify a woman's body. She remembered how at ease Sherlock had seemed around him, and he around Sherlock, like they had known each other all their lives. Government employee, Sherlock had said. But she had known this man was far more than a normal 'employee'. Everything about him practically _oozed_ authority.

She had remembered wondering just how high up Sherlock's influences went. Obviously it was higher than a mousy pathologist and a Detective Inspecter.

"He never doubted you," he continued, stepping forward. Everything about this man was intimidating. Molly regarded him with wide eyes as she self-consciously wiped at her cheeks. "Doesn't it speak for itself that, in his final moments, he came to you for help?"

She sucked in a breath. "How?" she squeaked, winced, and cleared her throat. "How do you know this?"

"Mycroft Holmes." he offered his hand. "It's an honor to finally meet you, Miss Hooper."

She flushed, quickly shaking his hand and clasping her hands in front of her. Then his words sunk in. "You're related to-" she looked him up and down. "You're his brother, aren't you? He never said, but then he doesn't-" she choked, "Didn't talk about personal things."

He gave a sharp nod. "No, I don't suppose he would. Now, back to the matter at hand-" he looked down as if finding the handle of the umbrella very interesting. "Of course you understand that my brother is not one to willingly commit suicide. The only possible explanation is…." Molly could swear that the man was pausing for dramatic effects, "He was persuaded to jump by blackmailing."

Molly bit at her lip, her eyes again brimming with tears as she nodded shakily. "He-he said Moriarty would try to use John against him."

"Not just Dr. Watson, obviously." He gave Molly an annoyed look that was too much like Sherlock's 'dear me, is everyone except me a goldfish' look. She blushed furiously and averted her eyes. "The only thing that could've disarranged the plan was Moriarty finding out about it. Now how would he find out if not from you?"

Molly breathed in sharply, now anger surging up. "If you're implying-"

"Do let me continue, Miss Hooper. Only possible explanation to cover all of the facts, therefore, is that Moriarty had eyes, or more likely a sniper, on you and consequently found out about our plan. Sherlock no longer had a choice. Except of course, condemning his _friends_ to death, which he, for some reason, had considered an unfathomable option."

Molly simply stared. "But...but..." she finally whispered, "I wasn't importa-" she trailed off, remembering Sherlock's last text. Possibly his last words. To her.

_You've always counted._

"That was what I had assumed." Mycroft Holmes replied coolly, "Sherlock had never suggested anything to the contrary. But, as always it seemed, Jim Moriarty knew my brother better than he knew himself."

A strangled sob escaped her. Mycroft Holmes looked away, bowed his head for a moment, before looking up and out the window.

"I'm sorry." he said softly, and she couldn't tell whether he was speaking to Sherlock or her. But then he fixed his gaze on her. She suppressed a shiver at the intensity of them; just like Sherlock's. "Thank you for being there for him when I wasn't."

He gently closed Sherlock's eyes, smoothed the hair back from his forehead, before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss on the top of his head. Then he was gone, leaving Molly to collapse on the floor, sobs wracking her frame as her shoulders threatened to give away under the burden of the world's only consulting detective's death.

The extraordinary person that had given his life to save four ordinary people.

Later that night, when she had finished up the autopsy (she was adamant that it would be her), she gently placed him inside the black bag, pulled the chain up to his chin, stared down at him for a moment, before whispering softly, "Thank you, Sherlock."

And her voice didn't waver.

Fin

**So, what do you think? Let me know! Off you pop. Go on. For me. Pleeeeeaaaaaase?**


End file.
